


Sweating Out Confessions

by stpitbull



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 17:16:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stpitbull/pseuds/stpitbull
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Note: One of Arcade's stories is inspired by one of my favorite fills on the kinkmeme, "Battle of Wills", over here:<br/>http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/2868.html?thread=2843188#t2843188</p></blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"And that wasn't even the  _worst_  part." Arcade stops to throw back another shot and quickly wipes the corners of his mouth with a pinch of his thumb and forefinger. "No, the  _worst_  part was the next morning. No one should have to go to bed with a man hung like a super mutant just to wake up and see he has a face to match."   
  
It's been a while since the courier rolled back into Freeside, at least a couple of weeks since she snatched up her new traveling companion and set out for adventure. And not that the King has ever been particularly tight with any of the Followers but he barely recognizes this creature sitting in the Wrangler. The doctor certainly looked different, but anyone who traded a labcoat for leather armor would. This was more in the casual fling of his hands as he elaborates on the knotting methods he learned from a Ranger whose name he couldn't recall but whose cock he could describe in loving detail. "I'm serious," he's saying to Francine (and the King has  _never_  seen her grin like this), "it's not often that I'm so inclined but how was I supposed to refuse the opportunity to ride  _that_  monster?"   
  
"You'd been a damn fool if you had, pal," Francine agrees encouragingly, pouring another shot.   
  
The King had come here for a quick drink to ease up some of the weight in his shoulders, somewhere not knotted and tangled with incarnations of his responsibilities, but he takes a seat at the bar, beside the courier.  _This should be entertaining._   
  
And it is. It would appear that for all of his public airs of low-key reservation, Arcade was quite the storyteller once properly lubricated, all airy tones and gesturing hands. And when it came to personal exploits he had volumes to tell.   
  
The King's trying to hear the tail end of the story Arcade's wrapping up but Six swallows another shot and tosses him an uneasy smile. "Sorry about him," she says through a twisted attempt at a conspiratorial smile, marred by her own discomfort. "I thought introducing him to tequila would be a good thing but instead it leads to... this. I was just trynna get him to loosen up."   
  
"I'd say you were successful, sweetie," Francine chuckles under her breath as she sets up another line of shots for Arcade. "Here, Followers discount."   
  
"What'll it cost me?" Arcade asks, already picking up a shot.   
  
"Explain what you meant when you said 'Chinese finger trap' a couple of ill-advised tumbles back."   
  
"Oh!" Arcade knocks back the shot and licks his lips. "S'another word for spitroasting. Again, I normally prefer the master of ceremonies in one of those situations rather than the center ring, as it were, but I was the one who started things by sucking off one brother -- telling the other to get away from my ass would have just been rude. Not to mention my mouth was full."   
  
Francine's bark of laughter is as genuine as Six's is forced, and the King is still on the fringes of the conversation but he knows he should chuckle or something. But his mind conjures up the image of Arcade on his hands and knees getting stuffed from both ends by anonymous men, their faces blurred as the mental tableau pinholes on Arcade's flushed face and mussed hair and hollowed cheeks and the resulting lurch of heat in his gut is not exactly expected.   
  
Six is excusing herself and he jerks a little when she addresses him, and his collar feels tight. She's invited him somewhere,  _somewhere not flooded with Dirty Uncle Arcade's Storytime_ , and he declines. There's a flash of something like disappointment in her face and normally he would offer friendly placations, but he's sufficiently distracted by shifting on the barstool, heel digging into the top rung as he tries to maintain his posture while adjusting to the fact that his body is definitely reacting now.

Six leaves and Arcade's eyes are blurry from drink but he's watching the King carefully, one fingertip tracing the rim of his empty shotglass. Francine dutifully pours a fresh shot, but Arcade pushes the glass towards the King. "I don't claim to be the most observant man but I think you could use this more than me, if that look on your face is anything to go by."   
  
The King's laugh is shakier than usual but his voice is casual as the shot burns nicely in his chest. "Don't mean that be that obvious," he says. "Just dealin' with a little stress."   
  
"Stressed in Freeside? I couldn't  _possibly_  imagine."   
  
He laughs again and it's genuine this time. "Hey, we can't  _all_  be chock fulla surprises tonight, doc." By now Francine's set out a second shot glass and filled both before disappearing into the back, but Arcade's is still full when the King has emptied his own. "Had no idea you were such a proficient, ah... storyteller."   
  
Arcade laughs now. "Yes, that's what I'm good for. Determining the medicinal properties of local plantlife, criticizing the consumption of centuries-old food, and _storytelling_ . My skillset may be limited to the utterly useless but at least it's unique."   
  
"Well," the King says, "you won't find me complainin' about it."   
  
"Really now?" Arcade says with a raised eyebrow.   
  
It's a simple lift of a brow but it sends the King scrambling inside, composure airtight as he shrugs and says, "Like I said, dealin' with stress. A good storyteller makes for a good distraction."   
  
"Distraction, huh?" Arcade says and the King can't tell if that's a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Alright," he says, and finally tosses back his shot. "One from the top shelf. You've earned it. Here's the story of how I fucked and sucked my way out of a slaver camp."   
  
The King is struggling not to squirm in his seat as he listens to Arcade's voice detailing his half-panicked plan of escaping his slaver captor by exhausting him. And the King's mental theatre kept up, illustrating Arcade on his knees, letting his face be fucked with a dirty fist tangled in his hair, Arcade's long-fingered hands groping for keys only to be hindered by seed pumping down his throat, of him wiping come off his chin with irritated tears at the corners of his eyes and asking  _is that all you got?_ , getting flipped onto his belly and fucked hard, thick meaty hands on his pale hips pulling him back with every thrust forward and it isn't until Arcade stops mid-detail and just stares at him with parted lips that he realizes his breathing has audibly picked up.   
  
"Correct me if I'm wrong," Arcade says, looking at him with a sort of pleased, muted incredulity, "but why finish this story when I can make a new one?"


	2. Chapter 2

The last time the King saw the inside of a room at the Wrangler, people still knew his real name, and this wasn't even the Wrangler. Had the same sign outside, but it wasn't  _the Wrangler_ . A local had hired mercs to clear the building out and had been planning to fix it up. He disappeared without a trace, back when Francine thought she could still pull off doe eyes.   
  
Arcade's lips are soft but he is not gentle, the soft skin of his hands at odds with the strength in their grip as he holds the King's face and takes his lower lip in what is more bite than nip. His own hands are restlessly tugging at Arcade's shirt, untucking it and pulling at the buttons. His jacket's on the floor and his own shirt is being pushed down his shoulders when the backs of his knees connect with the edge of the bed and Arcade is still advancing, lowering him onto the mattress.   
  
Arcade stands, hair wild and face flushed pink, and he rids the King of his trousers before straddling his hips. The King sucks in a deep breath at the heat of skin on skin as Arcade folds himself over him, just barely brushing their noses together as he lightly rakes his fingernails down the King's ribcage. The King's lips are parted when he lifts his head towards the warm breath ghosting his face, but flat palms on his shoulders press him down into the mattress. Arcade is murmuring at him to relax and he tries but every last one of his nerves is ringing out and his senses are lost in the scrape of teeth on his collarbone, the press of lips trailing warm and open down the dip in his ribs, the bruise being sucked into his hip. His hands are still wandering everywhere, fingertips digging into Arcade's shoulders and threading in his hair, and when he tries to sit up Arcade takes his wrists in a firm hold.   
  
He tugs them free and sits up again, trying to hold Arcade's face with the same authority that his own had been held, but Arcade just grabs his wrists again, moves forward until he's on his back, holding the King down with his own weight.   
  
"I know you're used to being in control," Arcade says and there's a rougher shade to his voice that sends a fresh roll of heat in the King's gut, so thick that he almost moans from it, "but it's probably best that you let go of that notion for the night."   
  
Maybe it's the weight of Arcade on his hips or the way he looks with at this distance, when the King can see the dust of freckles over his cheekbones from his new sundrenched life, but he lets the lock of his shoulders slip loose, lets his arms go limp under Arcade's grip.    
  
Arcade moves off of him, fumbling for something on the floor and the King hears the  _schiff_  of rustling clothes, the  _clink_  of metal. His heart is fluttering somewhere in his throat but he doesn't resist when Arcade holds him down and kisses him hard, and he lets his wrists be pinned up, and Arcade's looping his belt around them, tying them to board at the foot of the bed.    
  
"You okay with this?" he hears Arcade asking quietly as he secures the buckle.   
  
He doesn't trust his voice, just nods when Arcade glances down at him, tugs at his bonds reflexively. He breathes in deep, closes his eyes as he tries to just relax, tries to just enjoy the feeling of that mouth on his flesh, forging a trail down his body that's followed by big hands, hands that are hiking up his thighs, and he lets his legs hover in the air and he considers asking what Arcade's got planned when he's being spread open, and the questions frays and breaks into a groan at the feeling of soft licks, day-old stubble and he's pretty sure he's never heard himself make  _that_  particular noise.    
  
Arcade meets it with a low moan dressed in soft slurps as he sucks on the King's hole with lips and tongue, kneading the flesh of the King's cheeks in his hands. The King only barely notices the burn in his wrists when he writhes, the heat coiled in his gut flaring up something fierce. And he's trying to get let himself get lost in the feeling of soft lips and slick tongue, but his body is still lurching, his arms keep fighting at the belt like it's instinct.

Arcade makes a thoughtful noise and pulls back, cool air sharp over the King's wet skin. "Thought I'd have you melting by now," Arcade murmurs plainly.   
  
"Tryin'," the King pants as Arcade lazily traces a finger tip over his hole, making him jump slightly. "Honestly. Just... relaxin' ain't in my nature, I guess."   
  
"If you think blathering on about your 'nature' is going to get you unbound, you are quite mistaken," Arcade says, and he moves up the King's body again, settling at his side. "Close your eyes."   
  
"What?" the King asks, darting a glance over to Arcade.   
  
"Just close your eyes," Arcade says, simply.   
  
The King takes a beat but obeys, letting his lids fall closed and trying to steady his breathing. He feels a fingertip brush over his lower lip, and the featherlight touch makes him shudder. He feels it in gusts of warm air when the doc starts talking. "Let me tell you about another Follower I used to travel with," Arcade says. "No one you know, I assure you. He never settled in Freeside. This was years ago when I was traveling -- Followers always travel in pairs." He dips fingertips past the King's parted lips and salt bursts sharp over the King's tongue, and he keeps his mouth pliant as Arcade wets the pad of his middle and forefinger. "Which can be  _very_  convenient.   
  
"We were hard up for shelter for the night, wound up having to bunk in this old office building." Arcade withdraws his fingers and the King almost follows chases them with his tongue. "We had been walking all day so I practically passed out, but I woke up not long later and heard him making some...  _obvious_ noises. Keep your eyes closed."   
  
The King nearly says  _I don't need to be told twice_  but all that leaves his mouth is a hitched sound and he twists when wet fingertips trace over his nipple.   
  
"God, you're so responsive to  _everything_ , it's  _fantastic_ ," the doc's voice is rough and breathy against his face, and his own breathing is heavy. "As I was saying," as he rolls the King's nipple between his thumb and forefinger, and he details his fellow Follower leaning against the edge of a desk, beating off like his life depended on it, eyes shut tight and noises barely restrained.   
  
"And when an opportunity like that presents itself, well," and the King arches into the hand moving from toying with him to spread flat down his chest, his belly, "well, let's just say it makes me feel opportunistic."   
  
The King's own breathless chuckle sounds out-of-body to him. "Kinda like tonight," he says.   
  
"Please, you're a much better catch than a road-haggard self-ascribed anthropologist," Arcade chuckles, "but yes, kind of like tonight."   
  
The coil in the King's gut lurches hot when those fingertip just barely graze the underside of his cock where it lays flat on his belly, a teasing touch and he is not remotely proud of the undignified whine he gives when Arcade's warm hand wraps around his shaft.   
  
"You're still wound up so  _tight_ ," Arcade says, keeping his hand still and trailing parted-lipped kisses along the King's arm, which flexes under the warm touch.   
  
"Just," the King pants, "keep talkin'. Please."   
  
Arcade obliges, moving his fist in slow, languid strokes as he shamelessly details another story that floods the King's head with images, fingers twitching in white-blonde hair as Arcade's head bobs in the lap of a faceless Follower, Arcade rising from his knees and turning him around, bending him over the desk and pushing long spitslicked fingers inside of him, and when the King suddenly sees himself filling out that second labcoat he bucks up fiercely into Arcade's grip.

There a sudden absence of warmth and friction around his cock and his eyes shoot open, and Arcade's moving. The King watches with labored breath and impatient nerves as Arcade lifts his legs, and instructs, "Keep your legs together."   
  
His senses are swimming but he obeys, and Arcade pushes his length between the cleft where the King's thighs meet, where his skin is already sheened with sweat. "You have fantastic legs," the doctor says in a ragged sigh, "in case you're not aware."   
  
The King squeezes his thighs together experimentally and watches as Arcade's carefully constructed restraint crumbles, listen to him groan and feels his fingers tighten in their grip around his knees. Arcade thrusts against him with his full body, and the King's cock is  _aching_  but he doesn't fight his binds anymore, he just surrenders, just lays back with heart racing as he watches Arcade, the tension building on his face, the flush overtaking is pale skin, listens to the grunts and whimpers that crescendo into one final moan.   
  
Arcade takes a moment to steady himself before shifting his knees, gently pulling the King's legs apart and he barely registers how stiff they feel from flexing tight, the strain in his hips unfurling as his legs drop, when his entire focus in pinpointed to Arcade's tongue lapping at his own seed, soft tongue and lips making short work of the mess on the King's inner thighs before moving on to his cock.   
  
Mingling washes of relief and sudden fresh tension flood his senses and even with Arcade's arm draped over his belly it's difficult not to thrust into the hot, tight seal of his mouth, against the slick tongue swirling around the tip of his cock. He breathes out a litany of obscenities, overwhelmed. "Not gonna last long," he warns Arcade in a voice he barely recognizes, the one reserved for bleary awakenings and the rare night he falls deep into the bottle with Pacer, utterly devoid of practiced persona.   
  
When Arcade pulls breifly off his cock the King can see a twist of the victorious smile he's trying to hold back. "Lasted longer than I thought you would," he says, and the King can't even retaliate, just arches when his cock in enveloped in wet heat once more, screws his eyes shut as he arches back and now he's moaning in that unfamiliar voice, his entire body shuddering as he finally lets go.   
  
He melts bonelessly into the mattress as Arcade gently sucks the last of the come from his spent cock, and when his wrists are freed he groans softly from the ache of letting his arms come to rest at his sides. His body is overtaken by warmth as his pounding heart finds a more suitable pace, and he watches Arcade dress in a bliss-addled haze.   
  
"Hey, doc," he says, words heavy in his throat with the promise of imminent sleep and a warm smile he can't keep from his face. Arcade looks over his shoulder at him as he's buckling the belt back around his hips, lifts an eyebrow in response. "When you tell this story, I'd appreciate it if you keep my identity vague."   
  
"Naturally," Arcade says easily. "Good storyteller can't give away all his secrets."

**Author's Note:**

> Note: One of Arcade's stories is inspired by one of my favorite fills on the kinkmeme, "Battle of Wills", over here:  
> http://falloutkinkmeme.livejournal.com/2868.html?thread=2843188#t2843188


End file.
